


Sanguine Sanctum

by Lovecraftian_Skeleton



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Gen, Heavy Angst, Kinda, LOTS of violence, Sad Floris | Fundy, Violence, i'm not kidding about the character death tag, it will be nothing BUT violence, this is a bloodborne au, will tag more characters as i go, you don't need to know anything about Bloodborne for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:16:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27271792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovecraftian_Skeleton/pseuds/Lovecraftian_Skeleton
Summary: Fear the old blood.
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	Sanguine Sanctum

**Author's Note:**

> Because there's not enough angst or crossovers in this fandom, so I'll do it myself. Also, this is gonna be a series of oneshots all set in the same universe. I'll add more whenever I'm listening to the Bloodborne soundtrack and the spirit of Micolash screaming about squid MILF possesses me. No, I won't explain that. Probably.
> 
> Anyway, have fun, this is only the personas, don't like it don't read it, and come on guys, we have GOT to get more crossovers in this fandom.

The first time Tommy died, he barely realized that it had happened.

Now, Tommy was no stranger to dangerous nights. He’d lived in Yharnam for as long as he could remember, after all, a city where the light of the moon was never seen by those that valued their lives. After all, everybody knew that nighttime was when the Beasts came out.

Nobody knew why sometimes, men would start to thrash and shift, turning into the terrible animalistic hybrids called Beasts. Nobody knew how the Beast Scourge spread, or why. They just knew that when the clocks tolled, it was time to get inside and bring out the incense. Get the incense, and hope that the Hunters would come through soon.

Tommy had known that night would be a Hunt, and a big one. There had been more and more Beasts showing up, too many for the small squads of Hunters who patrolled nightly, so a city-wide Hunt had been called. A massive purge, the only place going untouched being the walled-off ruins of Old Yharnam, but nobody ever bothered with those anyway. Every able-bodied Hunter available was called in to help, including Wilbur and Fundy.

Tubbo had been worried, picking at his church garb even as he set up the warding scents, but Tommy knew better. This happened all the time, at least once a year, and Wilbur had always come back just fine. He was a great Hunter, one of the best. Even Fundy was no slouch, though this would be his first city-wide Hunt. They had nothing to worry about that night other than keeping themselves awake and not bored.

When the door broke with a shuddering crash, the barricade having fallen beneath the glistening teeth and claws and wild eyes of a Beast, both boys only had a second to gasp before it was upon them. A moment’s hesitation and Tubbo ran, Tommy barely noticing him leave as he kicked and clawed at the monster, thinking of little other than survival, of hoping, praying, that a Hunter was near and would help him, would hear his screams as his arm was crushed between wolflike jaws.

But nobody came. And as claws tore through his ribcage, delicate bones shattering and organs deflating, blood splattering across the walls of his home and the fur of the Beast, Tommy woke up.

The first thing he’d noticed was the moon. It was full, and bright, and close, closer than he’d ever seen it. Moonlight illuminated the strange place, the edges of the flowers he laid on blurry and inconsistent. And then he’d sat up, finding himself surrounded by gravestones, and he’d met the Doll. She was kind, and smiled faintly, and clicked when she walked, and never blinked over her porcelain eyeballs. She’d told him that this place was called the Hunter’s Dream, and that there could only ever be one Dreamer at a time. She’d introduced him to the tiny, ghostly, screaming skeletons that scrabbled out of a puddle of goo on the ground, jibbering wildly as they offered him a flintlock pistol and a Saif. A Saif, like Wilbur used to have before upgrading to a Saw Spear. A Saif, like what Wilbur had taught him to use when he’d proclaimed that he wanted to be a Hunter one day, that he wanted to be cool and protect the city that was his home. A Saif, like the one that hung on the wall over the fireplace.

He took the Saif, and the pistol, and didn’t ask how the Messengers knew.

A curiosity brought him up the stairs that the Messengers had been waiting on, into the simple building that stood on a hill, surrounded by flowers and what seemed to be a farm on the other side. It was there that he met Technoblade, a man dressed in rags that may have once been fit for a king, long pink hair pulled back in a ragged braid and beastly lower teeth that Tommy resisted from asking about. Techno showed him around the building, the Workshop, showed him the workstation and the potato fields out back, handed him a badge and a solemn well-wishing.

Tommy woke up, the Beast clawing at the door that Tubbo had hidden himself in, and snarled.

The first time Tommy killed, he barely realized that Tubbo was screaming.

It had been a long conversation, then, both of them coated in each other’s blood and that of the Beast that had drawn it, the Beast whose body was mangled long before it became a corpse. Tommy had desperately tried to understand what had happened, where he’d been, describing the Dream as best as he could, its almost-human inhabitants, and Tubbo had stuttered out that he had heard mention of the Dream before, in hushed whispers by those in the Healing Church who were privy to more secrets than him, a mere Blood Minister. What he did know was that hunters who Dreamed were powerful, unkillable, destined for greatness, holy.

Tommy didn’t feel holy. He felt like his insides had been clawed open, like he was dropped into something he had no place in, like he had just killed a living creature, but Tubbo insisted.

As Tommy stepped out the door, hearing Tubbo put up a hopefully more secure barricade and smelling the stench of burning flesh and fur, he decided that actually, Hunting was absolute shit.

It had to have been hours later when Tommy, a little more confident in his ability to kill the Beasts that roamed and a little more wary of the hunting dogs that had torn him apart all of thirty minutes ago, stumbled towards the Oedon Chapel that Tubbo normally worked at and found a familiar face.

Fundy was there, ginger hair tainted a darker shade of red just like everything in the city was tonight, bringing his weapon carved from the claws of a large Beast down on an unrecognizable corpse. When Tommy called his name, Fundy stopped and stood, breath visibly curling away in the cold air as he growled. His eyes were blank, unfocused, the pupils little more than pinpricks. 

Tommy stepped back, eyes widening.

“Beasts all over the shop… You’ll be one of them, sooner or later.”

“Wait-” Tommy’s confusion was cut off by a crack and the gurgle of blood in a broken throat, Fundy’s pistol smoking as his adoptive brother fell to the ground, body already dissolving.

It was only a few minutes later that Tommy returned, sprinting back towards the graveyard where Fundy stood, waiting. He barely even got to say the man’s name before another shot was fired in his direction, only just dodged. He didn’t expect the second shot that went through his shoulder, the last thing he saw being Fundy’s clawed gauntlet racing for his skull.

The third time, Tommy fought back, extending his Saif with a flick of the wrist and swiping the smooth edge along Fundy’s side with one hand, his left shattered and useless. It barely slowed the other man down, and Tommy got to learn what it felt like when his neck was broken.

The seventh time, Tommy cried, having tripped over one of the gravestones scattered around the tomb, falling to the ground, giving Fundy an opening to stab the claws on his gauntlet deep into his leg. He didn’t understand, didn’t understand at all. Why was Fundy doing this? What had he done wrong? Was this, all of this, everything that had happened so far, a nightmare? It had to have been. The moon was still in the same spot as it had been when he first ventured out of the house, still bright and full. As Fundy stood over him, bloody lips pulled back in a terrible, horrible imitation of a smile, Tommy sang a lullaby under his breath, one that Wilbur used to sing to the two of them when they’d had nightmares, a song that would always take them away.

Fundy screamed and howled and staggered back, clutching his face, and Tommy didn’t quite understand why, but he realized that this was an opening. Still singing, voice hoarse, he pulled a vial of precious Healing Blood out from the pocket of his coat, a vial that he’d stolen from an empty house that he’d raided earlier that night, and plunged it into his leg. Flesh began to mend, the blood spilling from his leg beginning to lose its rapid flow, the tissue knitting itself back together in a manner that was far less uncomfortable than death.

Tommy smiled, nasty, standing to his feet and looking up at Fundy just in time to hear an awful screech and a tearing of flesh.

The smile dropped as Fundy turned around, no longer needing a gauntlet to have claws. As Tommy watched, the jaws of the man he had always thought of as an older brother extended with a harsh sobbing, teeth lengthening into points as with a horrible crack, a human face becoming a canine’s muzzle, thin and pointed like a fox’s.

Fundy had always loved foxes.

When Tommy died that time, it was to jaws that closed on either side of his head.

Tommy didn’t know how many times he died, there, to the thing that used to be Fundy. He didn’t know how long it took. It felt like days, like years, like anything other than this endless loop of pain was just a dream. The Dream that he returned to every time he died, funnily enough, felt more real than the world outside. Oh, Tommy fought, of course he did. He learned how the… The Fox-Beast (because that wasn’t Fundy, and oh gods, it could never be Fundy again, could it?) fought. He learned that it liked to attack the neck whenever it was exposed, he learned that it would jump over any obstacles he put in its path claws-first, he learned that it would lash out every time he landed a hit. He learned that the lullaby didn’t stop it anymore.

Every time he returned from the Dream, every time he came back from that tomb, he clenched his teeth and fought, and every time, he got just a little bit better. He began to understand exactly how the Saif swung, how deep it could cut into the Beast’s flesh, just the way to swing it so that the serrated edge would bite into the monster and elicit a howl. Every time, Tommy got a little faster, and the Fox-Beast got a little slower, and the ground was painted redder. Tommy had run out of blood vials long ago, was keeping himself alive through licking the red liquid on the side of his blade, every time giving him enough of an energy boost to paint the world a little more crimson. It wasn’t holy, far from it, but it was enough.

The he-didn’t-care time they fought, Tommy didn’t notice the sound of footprints on the dirt, soaked from rain and blood and who knew what else. All he could see was what he’d been seeing for what had to have been longer than a single goddamn night, the bloody saliva hanging from mangled jaws and matted fur following every claw swipe. All he could hear was the pounding of his heart, thudding in his ears, not loud enough to drown out the keening wail of the Beast when Tommy landed a particularly brutal hit through the ribcage, as the monster before him collapsed to the ground, still alive but only barely.

When Tommy raised his Saif, all he could feel was pain, his body having run out of tears to shed many, many deaths ago.

And as a hand caught his arm before he could bring it down on the thing that had once been Fundy, Tommy found himself falling out of tunnel vision, body beginning to shake as all the emotion and pain that he had been ignoring began to crash down around him.

He barely saw the white mask, a simple smiley face drawn on it, barely heard the resigned “I’ll take care of it.” Tommy had already ran, ran from Fundy’s soft cry, cut off by the falling of a Hunter’s axe.

The next time he found himself in the Dream, brought there by his own volition, he curled up in the Workshop. He didn’t notice nor care when Technoblade wrapped an old, tattered red cloak around his shoulders. He just cried.

And finally, Tommy slept.


End file.
